Lucky Stars
by Rhino7
Summary: The galaxy would have to wait. He wouldn’t be much help in fighting the Heartless if he couldn’t lift the Keyblade, much less swing it. Hurt!Sick!Sora. Rated for a few wordy dirds. Includes a shower scene.


**Lucky Stars**

**By Rhino7**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts, its characters or storyline. I do own this little one-shot thing-a-majig. In all honesty, I just sat down and started writing, with no plot or idea where it was going. I've been too busy with life to get much done in my multi-chapter stories, and a thousand apologies for that. I offer this one-shot as a peace offering. I don't think it's very good, but if some readers get some entertainment from it, I'm happy. Just keep in mind there's not really any point. I just wanted to beat Sora up a little, because I love him like that.**

**..:--X--:..**

It was close to three in the morning by the time Sora reached his apartment. He thanked his lucky stars for that, even though tonight the stars were hiding behind a thick veil of cloud cover. He almost didn't bother with the keys, hoping that just leaning against the door or wishing really hard would do the trick. Alas, it didn't quite work that way.

Sora stumbled out of the elevator, gritting his teeth as he forced his arm to obey his brain, reaching into his back pocket for his keys. His fingers fumbled but he found the cool metal and took a hold of it, drawing the chain out. His vision was doubling as it was, he couldn't spare the focus to sort out which key he needed. All of his concentration was locked on walking straight.

The world tipped crazily to the left and Sora leaned to the right, his shoulder colliding with the wall. Stifling a groan by biting his lip, Sora pushed off the wall, steadying himself, and looked at the nearest door. The closest apartment was labeled 402. Room 413 had never felt so far away. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever. Maybe Tifa was right; he should have just stayed at headquarters tonight.

No. He dismissed that thought quickly. He couldn't stay in that building any longer, hearing only of war and death and blood and fear and looming danger. All that had been piling over him all too thickly lately. Any more and he'd surely just go nuts. Still, the idea of being around people with softer hands than his had been appealing. It sure would have made cleaning himself up easier.

Biting his lip, Sora limped down the hallway, trying to keep as much weight as possible off of his left leg. His right arm was hooked protectively around his ribs, his shoulder aching. With every step, his clothes were pulled away from his skin, the blood and mud and sweat making it stick to his flesh and open wounds. The burns along his neck and bare arms were stinging, and his eyes were watering from the sweat and blood that leaked into them. His head was pounding. Taking a rafter beam to the neck would do that to a person.

Sora rolled his tongue around in his mouth. No teeth were missing, although there was more soot and mud caking the roof of his mouth than he cared for. Pinching his face, he exhaled heavily and continued forward. Was he making any progress at all? The mud trail he was leaving behind said he was, as did the passing doors: 406, 408, 410.

A shock of nausea almost overwhelmed him as his legs picked up the pace, ready to be in the familiarity and relief of his own apartment, ready to sit down, maybe just lay down on the floor. Considering the last time he'd swept, maybe he'd raincheck the date with the floor. Forcing his pace to slow, he took shorter strides as his left knee popped and his hip made a nasty grinding sound against bone.

Just when he thought he might have to crawl the last few feet, his body pulled up short outside the door labeled 413. A triumphant squeak escaped him and he fumbled with the keys, nearly dropping them twice before sorting out the right key. Ironic that the mighty Keybearer had to search for the keys to his apartment. It took even longer to steady his hands long enough to slide the key into the lock and turn it. He was shaking so badly he missed the knob entirely at first. Shock was setting in, the shaking plus the cold sweat and double vision indicated that.

Finally hearing that click of unlatching locks, Sora grappled with the knob and shouldered his way through the door, almost toppling to the floor in the process. However eager his legs had been earlier, they were now sluggish and uncoordinated. Regaining his balance, Sora stumbled into his apartment and hastily knocked the door closed behind him. He dropped his keys on the side table and hastily grabbed the corner of it until the world stopped spinning.

So maybe being home alone wasn't such a good idea.

Swallowing hard, Sora straightened and started the long trek across the living room to the bathroom beside the bedroom. It was the longest ten feet of his life. He really should have cleaned the place up when he had that day off…when was it…two months ago? He sighed, trudging through the clothes and clutter adorning his floor. He knew there was wood floor under there somewhere. It wasn't like he entertained much anyway.

Reaching the bathroom, he leaned against the doorframe and glanced at the clock on the wall above the answering machine. It was already 3:30. It had taken him half an hour to cover the 100 feet from the elevator to get into his apartment. He thought he'd been making progress. The answering machine was blinking a bright red five on missed calls.

Groaning, Sora maneuvered his arm around to dig out his cell phone. Six missed calls listed on the small screen. Great. Fantastic. He didn't bother checking the numbers, tossing the phone onto the sink counter, for lack of a better place to put it. The galaxy would have to wait. He wouldn't be much help in fighting the Heartless if he couldn't lift the Keyblade, much less swing it.

Blinking repeatedly to clear his vision, Sora wrangled half frozen, half burned fingers with the zipper of his shirt, shrugging his shoulders out of the sleeves and tugging at the mud caked material until it came away from his back with a wet, peeling noise. He dropped it to the linoleum floor with a slap, his gaze absently going to the mirror. His reflection resembled a Labrador that had just climbed out of a sewer and fought to the death with a cinderblock.

Mud was drying in swaths over every inch of skin. Gravel was buried in chunks against the ribs of his left side, bloody abrasions cross-hatching his sternum and around his collar. The skin was red and puckered from the burns around his shoulders and blisters were already blossoming over his forearms. His hands were rubbed raw and his wrists were bleeding, rust mingling with the open wounds. His hair was almost black with soot and blood. Most of the blood wasn't his, but some of it was. He winced at what he imagined the back of his head looked like. He could feel wind against his skull from where a chunk of his hair was been ripped out. Damn dancer Nobodies. Must have been their time of the month or something.

His ears had stopped bleeding, but his hearing was still thick with that dull ringing from blown eardrums. The dirt and soot had streaked down his face and neck from the rivulets of sweat breaking free from his hairline, enhancing the pale skin underneath. His eyes were bloodshot and the skin around his right was swelling and darkening to a brilliant purple-black shade.

Sora leaned forward, folding his palms around the edges of the sink counter, studying his reflection painfully. "Man, you really look like death warmed over."

He chuckled thinly, quickly stopping when his ribs shuddered in protest. Clearing his throat, he shuffled over to the shower and twiddled the hot water knob. A jet of clear water burst from the shower head. Stepping back to let the water run hot, Sora rolled his neck and went about bullying his rebelling fingers into unbuckling his belt.

By the time he had maneuvered out of his shredded and stiff pants, the world was rocking back and forth and his stomach didn't appreciate it. His vision went cloudy and a fresh bout of nausea made his knees buckle. His body retaliated from the kaleidoscopic view he was getting and he dropped forward, barely managing to grab the sides of the toilet before hurling.

Vomiting is always unpleasant, but vomiting with broken ribs and dizzy spells sucked the big one. Sora was trapped on his knees, bracing his elbows on the toilet bowl while he emptied his stomach contents. There wasn't much to expel and soon he was drying heaving, which was worse even than vomiting because there was no satisfaction of throwing anything up.

Keeping his shoulders hunched and his eyes squinted closed, Sora grappled at the top of the toilet until he found the lever and flushed it. Lunch in reverse was never fun. He didn't need to see it either. Wiping his mouth with the underside of his forearm, Sora pushed away from the toilet and stayed on his knees while the vertigo passed.

Steam was starting to rise out of the shower and he locked his arms against his thighs, willing his vision to get back in sync. He remained on the floor for a precautionary five minutes, just in case his stomach thought it had anything else to send back up the tunnel.

Finally, Sora summoned up the energy to straighten and pull himself unsteadily to his feet, leaning dependently on the wall behind him for support. Exhaling, Sora ran a hand through his hair, avoiding the tender side of his skull. Wrestling out of the last of his clothes and kicking his shoes off, the world insisted on not remaining still and Sora sat heavily on the edge of the shower, hanging his head over his knees and breathing shallowly. Concussions sucked too.

It took another three minutes or so before Sora felt steady enough to stand up and step into the shower. The hot water was like heaven as it crashed over his skull. It scalded over his shoulders and ran down his back like a lover's caress. The burns and lacerations and bruises stung with the contact, but the heat reached deep and his muscles started to relax, the knots loosening and his joints easing. The water circling the drain was a nasty mix of black and pink.

Sora groaned as the water ran over his collar and rolled over his ribs, like a liquid massage. His hair was plastered to his scalp and he ran a hand through it to push his bangs away from his forehead. Closing his eyes, he faced the stream, relishing the cleansing magic as the water flowed over his face. The initial shock of the water brought him back to full awareness and sharpened his attention immediately. Feeling rejuvenated, if only slightly, Sora tentatively popped open a bottle of body wash and upturned it over a washcloth. Lather, rinse, repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeat in his case.

The scrubbing was the hard part. Just letting the water and the steam work their magic on his skin was one thing, physically rubbing a soapy washcloth over tender and torn skin was another matter entirely. Knowing he'd have to use antiseptic later dulled the present stinging, if only minimally. He ended up using his knuckles to knead the fabric over his skin.

After half an hour of scrubbing and half a bottle of soap later, he could see the flushed pallor of his skin again and the ugly bruises and abrasions that ornamented him. Inhaling steam, he ran a hand over his face and emptied the rest of the soap over his head, the cool gel feeling of it layering in a blob on the crown of his head. He tossed the empty bottle out of the shower and had the audacity to raise both arms to wash his hair. His shoulder was still clicking in protest, but it at least obeyed now.

It took another half hour of just working the soap and lather over his scalp to let the brown of his hair resurface and when he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, he almost felt like a human being again. The floor of the shower was sooty and a ring of mud lined a few inches above the tile, but he'd see to that later.

Sora slowly toweled off and left his shredded, mud caked, blood slaked, and soaking wet clothes to marinate on the floor of the bathroom, instead opting for the dry, relatively clean clothes hanging out of the drawers of the dresser in his bedroom. It took some digging, but he scrounged up clean boxers, jeans, and a T-shirt and managed to get dressed without falling over or passing out.

The world had decided to remain still and balanced while he got dressed and dragged the first aid kit out from under the sink, limping into the kitchen area of the small apartment. The designated area was really a glorified island bar counter with a flat stove top, a microwave, and one of those three foot tall refrigerators. Sure, being a Keybearer had its perks: saving the world, intergalactic recognition, honor, but it wasn't exactly the highest paying job in the Alliance. Whoever dreamed up the idea of heroes having mansions was on three different kinds of crack.

He wasn't complaining though, he didn't plan on living in this apartment much longer. He'd been telling himself that for the last three years, and the end of the war was still nowhere in sight. And until the war was over and that file was closed, he had to remain here, fight for those who could not carry their swords and rescue those who could not help themselves. Until the guns were silent, he couldn't bring himself to go home to Destiny Islands.

Plopping the medical kit on the island counter, Sora shuddered through a chill and rolled his neck again, popping the latch clear and flipping the lid open. Gauze and stitch kits and rubbing alcohol glared up at him like a reprimanding mother. Man, he missed his parents: his dad telling him to suck it up and his mom fretting over him. The simple pleasures in life. Not bumbling around alone in your apartment and nearly hurling all over the bathroom floor.

Frowning, Sora pulled open the fridge and surveyed the sparing contents: a few bottles of water, some microwave dinners, and a carton of what at some time might have been milk. Whatever it was or had been, it was giving off an aroma. He snatched up two bottles of water and nudged the door closed with his knee, ignoring the offending dairy for the moment. He twisted open one of the bottles, tossing it back and draining half its contents in one swallow.

His throat was like a sponge, swallowing as much water as possible, derailing the sandpaper feel the inside of his mouth had been displaying for the last several hours. Sora came up for air once, finding out swallowing and breathing didn't happen at the same time, before draining the rest of the bottle and tossing it at the trash can. The plastic clatter he heard told him it found wood floor instead.

Sora eased onto one of the stool chairs lining the counter and gently started to probe at torn skin. The jagged lacerations across his torso were just superficial, but the burns over his arms, neck, and shoulders were going to hurt like Hell for a while. Using a mirror, he discovered the blow to the back of his head bloody but shallow and clean. Yay for no stitches.

Having that unpleasant task put behind him, Sora dampened a clean cloth with antiseptic and grimaced at the alcohol smell of it. It reminded him of hospitals. Suppressing a shudder, he tentatively but firmly pressed the cloth over the swath of shredded skin over his ribs. The white hot pain flamed angrily through his nerves, making his eyes water and his jaw lock up.

"Ah, son of a bitch!" He hissed, keeping his palm flat over the cloth, holding it in place.

He breathed in short, shallow gasps, minimizing movement so that his ribs wouldn't act up now of all things. Finally pulling the cloth away and finding it pink with drying blood, he dropped it on the table and took up another cloth. Dousing this second cloth, he daubed gingerly at the cuts and scrapes marring his face and rubbing it over his skinned knees before dispatching it as well.

The cool air was easing the sting of the alcohol at his side and face and knees, and he took advantage of that relief to check his ribs. None felt broken, a few were fractured sure, but there was a world of difference between broken ribs and fractured ribs. He ran his shoulder through his range of motion and found it stiff and sore but not immobile. Gold star for that. Moving gingerly, he carefully taped gauze over the exposed wounds, throwing a few butterfly bandages over the facial cuts. His right eye was swelling badly, as was his left knee, and his hip was making no positive contributions to moving.

He dug out a bottle of burn ointment and barely managed to pop the cap open with his increasingly rebellious fingers. There was no good way to tell how much of that cream stuff was needed to sufficiently curb the burning and instigate faster healing. He missed the good old days of potions and ethers. Too bad the Nobodies had come up with toxins immunized to magical healing prowess. Now it was like trying to put out a fire by throwing rocks at it. It just didn't work.

In the end, Sora opted for overdoing it than not using enough. He rubbed enough cream over his arms and around his shoulders and neck until the white of the stuff countered the angry red of his skin. While that soaked in, he limped to the freezer and filled a few plastic bags with ice, setting them on the counter and tossing the used, bloody pink towels in the trash. Blood didn't wash out easily, that he'd learned early on.

It took close to half an hour to adequately wrap gauze around his burned forearms and tape it down over his back. He was glad his stomach had accepted the peace offering of water, but no matter how hungry he was, he didn't want to push it too soon. He clumsily wrapped his hands, just for the sake of reducing friction over his worn fingers, and left the first aid kit as it lay, disemboweled all over the counter.

He chased three painkiller pills with the second bottle of water in three gulps as he made his way gingerly from the kitchen back to his bedroom, snatching up his cell phone on the way. Three more missed calls. He hadn't even heard it ring. Grimacing, he set it on the bedside table next to the clock, which lazily told him it was nearly five in the morning. Three all nighters in a row was no laughing matter, and he had no intention to answering those missed calls until he'd had at least ten hours of sleep. Otherwise, he wouldn't be much use even if he did call back.

Taking up the ice bags he'd filled earlier, Sora set them beside his phone and eased himself onto the bed. He shoved the blanket aside and straightened out the sheet instead. He nearly had to use his hands to pull his legs up onto the mattress, particularly his left. He groaned and leaned back on his elbows, getting his breath back and working all of his joints before deciding nothing was really broken or dislocated before he slept on them.

Satisfied, he slowly and gingerly rolled down flat on his back, his hair still wet and clinging to his face from the shower. He went about situating the ice bags against his knee, hip, and under his shoulder, relaxing as the biting cold of the ice reached deep to numb the aching soreness.

There would be no comfortable, easy sleep tonight, not with sore ribs and a rebel hip. He'd be lucky to get four hours. But it'd be something. Sora exhaled and tried to relaxed his overtaxed muscles and put his weary bones to rest. For the next twelve hours, it was just going to be Sora, the bed, and the ice packs, and hopefully blissful unconsciousness.

His phone started ringing.

He heard it this time, and seriously contemplated throwing it against the wall. That required movement though, and he wasn't willing to give that much. His phone vibrated itself into silence on the bedside table and his voicemail clicked the call over.

"Hey, Sora? It's Kairi. I've been trying to reach you. I just heard about what happened, are you okay?" Kairi's voice bubbled over the receiver.

Soreness be damned, Sora reached over and chucked the cell phone at wall, was satisfied to hear it shatter, and sunk back onto the pillows. Here lies Sora's cell phone, may Sora now rest in peace. Sora settled his shoulders into the mattress and closed his eyes. Sleep was surprisingly quick to overwhelm him, and he was grateful for that. Thank his lucky stars.


End file.
